


How Much I Lost

by destinae



Series: Winter Wonderland [3]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Brief mention of injury/gore, Car Accidents, I am the worst™, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 22:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10954041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinae/pseuds/destinae
Summary: In Lafayette's final moments, he experiences two distinct sensations: searing pain, and gripping anguish.





	How Much I Lost

Death came to Gilbert without warning.

He knew the commute. For more than three decades, he had made the drive to the Embassy without issue. Maybe it was because of the brevity of the ride, or maybe it was luck.

That morning, however, his mind wandered-- this was common. What was uncommon was where it wandered to: a winter, many years ago, with an old friend.

Gilbert knew that memories were fabrications. They were stories he told himself of the past, steeped in sentiment and bias-- regardless, he couldn’t help but believe that his time with George had been as wonderful as he remembered. There had been a warmth between them those winters, a kind that couldn’t quite be quantified. It was a magnetic pull between spirits that were not kindred, but rather compatible, that shared an unspoken and indescribable bond with one another. It had been a spark generated not by heat, but by something that Gilbert had never really gotten in touch with.

It’d been Gilbert’s choice to end it, and because of that, he had never complained about it. _He_ had chosen the separation, because _he’d_ thought it made sense. It was _supposed_ to make sense. It was supposed to make sense, because **Gilbert** made sense. He was order in protest of disorder, he was a standing constant that existed both _in spite of_ and _despite_ the chaos of human condition. He was irony: the free-spirited politician with a bleeding heart who shut himself off from the deepest connection he’d ever made.

Like his commute, Gilbert’s life was plain and straightforward. He knew what to expect, who he would see, and when things would happen. In a way, this self-inflicted prison of routine and self-control was comforting. Color had, of course, long since drained from the life of the once-Romantic Gilbert. Colorful scarves had been traded out for monochrome ties. To him, flair was a lapel pin in theme with the season. It didn’t take a genius to see that a light had gone out in his bleeding heart.

Despite this, Gilbert insisted on writing letters dripping in decorum and mythos to George. There was a _life_ to their correspondence, and in some ways, it was the _only_ life that Gilbert felt genuinely excited about. While George had complained many times about how long it took for letters to be delivered, and suggested they email or text, Gilbert had insisted that letters were better. He would not, however, mention that he would run his fingers over the back of the paper, feeling the ridges of trained cursive on paper, studying word choices and collecting piles of letters returned to their eagerly ripped envelopes in his desk drawer. These things were not important, these things were not what made Gilbert exciting.

In short, Lafayette had made certain to immortalize himself as the person George had loved: an artist. Someone who owned his heart, but was not ruled by it. In his youth, the freedom of wealth had given Gilbert the liberty to act as he had. Now, as an adult, wealth bore on him. How had he lived a life of such excitement, but still found luxury unfulfilling? It seemed oxymoronic to Gilbert that he could have ever claimed any joy if all of it had been bought.

The truck hit his car from the left side.

The first thing Gilbert felt was a sharp, stabbing sensation in his side as the metal frame of the door bent in. What happened next existed not as a single experience, but rather a series of sensations: airbags engaging, glass shattering. The world turned upside down.

His car flew through the air.

It is said that, in the moments before one faces death, their life flashes before their eyes. Gilbert had thought as much was true, but he’d assumed it would have been a fast-forwarding VHS. Pain and passion, jealousy and vengeance, all kinds of emotions on display in 10,000x the time they really occurred.

Rather, he saw snapshots. Learning to read. Going to school.

Vacations with George.

The stabbing became more prevalent then: it transcended an immediate, physical pain, and went for something buried in his spirit. Something below the belt, buried under years of denial and repression.

Metal scraped concrete.

Hot chocolate, burning tongues that carried conversation as if the only things in the world that mattered were the words leaving them. Mittened hands brushing, a strange numbness fading with contact.

As his car slid and something in his chest broke. The tunnel vision kicked in. More cruel reminders surfaced.

Letters and texts, tangible testaments to love and adoration. Physical reflections of feelings that could never be captured.

Gilbert had never left George, nor George Gilbert. They had held onto each other even then, even years after they’d begun their denial, even when they had become so alienated from the two people that had once been so in love with one another.

As suddenly as the memories came, they left, and Gilbert felt very, very cold. He felt agony, tearing at his heart and crushing him. He berated himself for not telling George how much he loved him. Why had Gilbert been so afraid of happiness? Why was he so willing to relinquish true empathy?

It was then that he realized he was crying. Tears mixed with blood, and he felt his body lurch as he sobbed. The last thing Gilbert felt was a hand reaching through his window, grabbing his shoulder.

Wearing a mitten.

Blackout.

That afternoon, a letter arrived at the box of the French ambassador announcing the death of an old friend. It was never opened.

**Author's Note:**

> I bit the bullet and ended this series.
> 
> First, housekeeping: "Pain and passion, jealousy and vengeance, all kinds of emotions on display..." is a reference to Chess the Musical. It's a great show. Everyone should watch it.
> 
> It was really hard for me to concoct a suitable ending to this series. I've always been very into writing sad endings for my works: I think that many times in life, you will look back and see a happier version of yourself lost in the past. That was the crux of these two follow-ups. I understand that it would have been easy to write some corny, happy reunion, but for me, that didn't seem to fit. The happiest people sometimes inflict on themselves the greatest tragedies.
> 
> Now that I've finished this, I've finally said goodbye to my venture into this universe. It was nothing but a pleasure to write this, and it's become one of my favorite works to date. 
> 
> Expect more from me soon. It likely won't be from this fandom, as I feel like I've told every story that there is for me here, but you can always keep up with what I've written by visiting my profile. Thank you all for going on this adventure with me. Comments and kudos are always welcome.


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